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It stands as the most memorable appearance in cinematic history – yet the actor stays without moving a muscle.

Clarice Starling, just starting out, navigates the line of detention units finally encountering Dr. Lecter's reinforced glass enclosure. There he stands, his face resembling an animated death's head filled with sinister intent, chillingly static clad in a tight blue inmate uniform. He doesn't move right up until he propels himself toward the window, producing that distinctive snarling-hissing noise. A multitude of real-crime films have since revealed that genuine criminals are often very boring, with nothing resembling Anthony Hopkins's captivating film persona.

He wasn't exactly an unknown upon receiving that Oscar-winning role in The Silence of the Lambs in 1989: it wasn't his debut, instead, a superstar emerged. His Dr. Lecter drew influence, Hopkins cheerfully recalls in his latest book, on Bela Lugosi's Dracula, on the Soviet leader based on his daughter's accounts, and also from his rigorously precise Rada tutor his mentor Fettes. Additionally, there existed a father-daughter dimension in these moments; a difficult topic for Hopkins, who also describes how his Lear was subconsciously influenced by deep-seated remorse concerning Abigail, his distant daughter from his failed first union during the 60s to Petronella Barker, who resented his absences and his drinking habits.

The memoir's title is derived from an old wartime photo of a young Hopkins with his father at the seaside – the boy who perhaps believed he would never do OK. He felt confused, lonely, vulnerable little boy hailing from Port Talbot, son of Richard Arthur Hopkins, the scene-stealing supporting player here: a bread-maker and man's man, a plain speaker who loathed the sanctimonious churchgoers of the chapel and avoided displaying emotion, but had a streak of wistful, tearful romanticism. It was Hopkins Sr who deeply disliked the way they had to go begging to their rich relatives such as Aunt Patty, whose husband knew the famous Bevan and was able to secure Anthony as a boy into a prestigious academy: “Since they are extremely wealthy!” he exclaims while traveling there. “Everyone is looking for scraps! Bloody rubbish, that's what it is!”

The grovelling paid off, for a while. Hopkins was a hopeless student in his new institution. However, one day during an English class he needed to deliver the verse by John Masefield titled The West Wind – without seeing it first – and that voice came to life; he stunned the teacher and the other boys. He says quite plausibly that verse, by itself, started his career. This, along with enrolling in the YMCA theater group. Remarkably, he left school a no-hoper, pursued acting, and to the astonishment of his parents, was acting with Laurence Olivier at the famous theater within 10 years. He largely achieved it alone, though at that time financial aid was available for drama school – an opportunity for working-class actors. Richard Hopkins was continually impressed with Anthony's worldwide acclaim: when he asked Anthony to perform the Yorick monologue from Hamlet, his father paid close attention and then left the room and burst into tears.

Concerning the volatile, bloody-minded son, he quit the National Theatre company out of frustration – much to Olivier's disappointment and criticism – but fortunately found a memorable TV character as a potential war criminal in the series QB VII, which paved the way to characters including in the film The Elephant Man and a successful acting career on screen, which he preferred over theater. And he quit booze during the mid-70s once a notorious drinker, and thus made it through midlife to deliver outstanding roles, like Hannibal Lecter, the butler Stevens in the movie with Emma Thompson alongside Emma Thompson and the old man with dementia in his film The Father – his second Oscar.

In the latter half of the book his personality becomes more opaque, more studied. Some of the anecdotage fall a bit flat. He mentions having lunch by his co-star in Stone's Nixon, the highly regarded performer Paul Sorvino, who sought to advise him his acting as Nixon wasn't effective. Was this the chance for him to absorb a lesson from the famous actor from Goodfellas? Not exactly. He tends to concur with Stone's rejection of Sorvino as being motivated due to resentment. Really?

He repeatedly performs the grounded, serious thespian who maintains you must to get there on time, remember every crew member's name and get on with it. Quite so. But he also recounts confronting an obnoxious director who brought a background actor to tears: “Apologize to that girl! And acquire some decency. If you ever repeat that near me, I'll alter your appearance!” Anthony comes across as a person who quit alcohol but maybe not the belligerence that accompanied it. A Shakespearean like him must know Cornwall's speech regarding Kent in King Lear: “He is incapable of flattery! An honest mind and plain – he must speak truth!”

Hopkins concludes his book with a lengthy appendix composed simply